A Perfect Fifth
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Looking back, looking forward, and catching fish.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's note: **This follows on after the stories "Tempus Fugit" and "Comfort Food" and includes a brief reference to the story, "Reversal of Fortune".

Many thanks to my dear betas, Owl and Cheri.

**A Perfect Fifth**

by L.M. Lewis

Mark had a leather-bound pocket calendar. It had been a gift from Hardcastle the previous Christmas. The night he'd received it he'd sat at his desk in the gatehouse loft and, in a burst of diligence, penciled in every foreseeable event for the upcoming year.

September would be a fairly portentous month, marking the start of his final term in law school as well as his thirty-fourth birthday. But there was, in addition, another day that he'd noted with particular care.

In due time the fall semester arrived, with its usual scramble to master another batch of cases and the arcane ways of a new set of professors. This is what had happened in several previous Septembers, and the reason why Mark was so wary of misplacing that less obvious red letter day.

He knew he couldn't count on Hardcastle to remind him. If anything, the judge seemed determined _not_ to bring the date up, even though he seemed equally incapable of ignoring it.

The last four years the retired jurist had made an annual pilgrimage to meet his old cronies for lunch on the day that marked the anniversary of his retirement, but it had seemed more duty than pleasure. Not that it had mattered much to McCormick at first, if he had even noticed, but the last two years it had become evident and he'd finally decided the whole thing was stupid.

"Fishing," he said.

"Huh?" Hardcastle looked up from the pile of minor paperwork he'd been tackling.

"You heard me. _Fishing_. When was the last time we got out and did some?"

The judge frowned and then looked down at the phone bill as though the answer might be written there. Still frowning, he looked up again. "I dunno, last spring I guess. Why?"

Mark put his pencil down and closed the textbook on it. "I haven't had a decent fillet in six months."

Hardcastle's frown gave way to frank disbelief. "You always bitch and moan that we're stuck eating fish for weeks every time we come home from one of those trips."

"Blue sky, the sun sparkling off the water—"

"You whine about the mosquitoes . . . and remember that time you found a snake curled up in the firewood?"

"One snake. And it wasn't even a poisonous one."

"Well," Hardcastle glanced suddenly to the left in a way that might have easily passed for shifty in someone who wasn't him, "I mighta told you a little fib about that."

Despite his best efforts, Mark felt his eyebrows suddenly rise. He tamped them back down. The result was a stern expression.

"Look," he said, "I've been spending every day in a classroom listening to Professor Hinklemann droning on about contracts. It's only been a couple of weeks but I think I'm starting to lose it."

"Hinklemann," the judge winced, "yeah, gutting fish would be more fun."

"This may be a one-time offer. I'll even drive. If we take off right after class on Friday, we could be up to Cachuma before dark. I promise, no whining about the bugs and I'll clean everything we catch."

Hardcastle had perked up at this last part of the deal, but there was still a hint of suspicion in his voice when he said, "_This _Friday?"

"Yeah," Mark replied casually as he reopened his book, "why not?"

If there had been any reason to object, Hardcastle hadn't seen fit to bring it up. Instead, three days later, at a little after three on Friday afternoon, they had the truck loaded up and were pulling out onto the PCH.

Mark drove, and they took the scenic route, with the ocean to one side and the hills on the other, nearly all the way to Santa Barbara. There they turned north, traversing the city, and then took the San Marcos Pass Road up into the mountains. The sun was off on their left, still hanging just above the higher hills.

"Won't have a chance to fish tonight, by the time we've got the stuff out and set-up," Mark speculated. "Sorry I couldn't get home any sooner."

Hardcastle waved that off with a casual, "Doesn't matter; there's always tomorrow. I packed some sandwiches."

"We could've stopped and gotten something to eat." Mark looked ahead steadily.

"And then we'd be setting up the tent in the dark."

"That's what headlights are for," Mark grinned.

"You kids." Hardcastle shook his head once. "_Headlights_. What kind of pioneer roughing it is that?"

"You know that lake's a reservoir, Kemosabe. Just 'cause they gave it an Indian name, doesn't make it part of the natural heritage."

"Hmmph, as long as they stocked it with plenty of rainbow this spring, it'll be natural enough for me."

"That's the pioneer spirit." Mark nodded.

00000

The camping area was located on a spit of land a mile or so long and not even a mile across at its widest. It wasn't the sort of wilderness fishing spot that Hardcastle usually frequented, but it wasn't so crowded that they were rubbing elbows with the neighbors, and Mark thought it wasn't half-bad for a quick getaway.

He unloaded while the judge fiddled with the tent. The truth was, the older man probably could have done it in the dark, but now there was the golden rose of sunset to work by, the sort of light that gave everything the long-shadow look of memory.

Mark had gotten the last of their equipment out of the truck and even managed to perch the kindling in the fire pit by the time the tent was standing.

"You want to do the honors or shall I?" he asked, holding up the matchbook.

Hardcastle strolled over and studied the tidy arrangement of graduated tinder and kindling. "Nice. Seems like a shame to burn it."

"We could just leave the headlights on," Mark suggested, "but it wouldn't be the same."

"Nah, light it."

Mark nodded and struck a flame, setting it under several spots. There was no money riding on it, but the one-match fire had become something of a tradition for their expeditions, and the rare failure—on those occasions where wind or green wood conspired against them—might even be considered an ill omen.

There were no such conspiracies this time. Dry fuel and a nearly still night bowed to Mark's camp-craft. It wasn't long before they had a small but cheery blaze. He sat back on the log he'd pulled in close, coaxing his creation along until it was stable. Then he glanced up. Hardcastle was standing to his right and a little behind him; his hands plunged deep in his jacket pockets. The flickering light picked out shadows on his face. His expression was pensive.

"Sit down." Mark pointed to another short log. "We're out here to relax, right?"

Hardcastle broke out of his reverie. He frowned and looked around slowly, then finally headed for the cooler.

"Sandwiches," he said, opening the lid and digging inside. "Here," he tossed one over. Mark executed a clean catch.

The judge rejoined him at the fireside a moment later, bearing two beers and another sandwich. He handed one of the bottles over and settled himself on his own log.

The mountains had swallowed up the last of the sunlight and now the fire cast a steadier glow. Mark unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite, and chewed it thoughtfully. The half moon was already up in the eastern sky and the first few stars were out.

"Do you ever wonder 'what if' sometimes?"

"'What if' what?" Hardcastle grumbled.

"What if lots of stuff." Mark put his sandwich down and twisted the cap off his beer then took a long draw from it. "Like," he said, after he'd swallowed, "what if I'd taken the Coyote a couple days later, and you hadn't been there when I was indicted?"

"Yeah, I've thought about that once or twice." Hardcastle's brow furrowed. "Do you ever think about it—the 'what if' part?"

"Haven't in a while. I use to." Mark took another swig from his bottle. "I've done the math a couple of times—not sure I got it right. That PD said I was looking at first degree burglary, possession of the equipment, and a bunch of counts involved with the flight to avoid arrest and property damage."

Hardcastle pursed his lips momentarily and the said, "Upping the burglary to first degree was overkill—there was a caretaker living somewhere on the property—but the rest of it was a solid, middle-of-the-road bill for a guy with two previous felony convictions."

Mark smiled wanly. "I thought maybe ten years."

"If the sentences were strung out consecutively, yeah, easy," Hardcastle admitted. "And ol' Cody, he was practically a special interest group all by himself. The DA was getting leaned on pretty hard." The judge cast him a considering look. "You know I didn't need you to paint me a picture in my chambers that day to know something didn't seem on the up and up with Cody's operation."

Mark glanced away. This wasn't exactly the conversation he'd thought they'd be having that night, but it was _interesting_—in a there-but-for-the-grace-of-God nightmarish sort of way. He couldn't resist one more hypothetical.

"What if you'd listened to me that first time I said 'no'?"

His first no had been a damn emphatic one. He'd practically spat it into Hardcastle's face in the man's own judicial chambers. It had been five years ago to the day—the first time Hardcastle had offered him the job of being Tonto to his Lone Ranger.

"Well, I didn't," the older man said decisively. "So I guess I never had to wonder. I've never been the kind of guy who gives up that easy."

"But neither am I, and the decision was in my hands," Mark pointed out. "I could've said no again the second time."

"Only if you were crazy. You were looking at ten years, for chrissake."

Mark shrugged. "I was crazy . . . a little, anyway, right then." He looked up at the sky, the embers dancing up toward the starry glitter.

"Then it's a good thing I'm not the type who gives in," Hardcastle grumbled. "I think I would have let you stew on it and come back a third time."

"Yeah, I'll bet you would've." Mark smiled up at the stars and drained the rest of his bottle.

"I might not've been too happy about it, though," the judge admitted.

Mark nodded and then mused, "So, I guess that 'what if' is okay. But what if you hadn't grabbed my case in the first place and shoe-horned it into your last day?"

"Who said I did that?" the judge asked indignantly.

The younger man tapped the side of his nose and said, conspiratorially, "I have my sources. Besides, how much good karma can a three-time loser have? You gonna deny you pulled a string or two?"

There was no ready disavowal. Hardcastle merely cocked a smile and said, "So at least you're willing to admit I was good karma that time, huh?"

Mark shrugged. "I suppose one man's strings are another man's karma."

Hardcastle scratched his head. "That's one way of looking at it and—yeah—I suppose you could say I mighta pulled one little string to get you back in my courtroom.—nothing hinky about it."

"Thanks," Mark said abruptly.

"Huh?"

"I thanked you once, a couple years ago, but I wasn't sure if you ever figured out what I was thanking you for_._"

Hardcastle's brow was furrowed in what looked like an effort of memory.

"I doesn't matter," Mark said quietly. "Just thanks . . . I'd be halfway through that ten years right about now."

It was a sobering thought, and not one that Mark cared to dwell on for very long. He straightened his legs and got to his feet, strolling over to the cooler and liberating two more bottles. He fetched one back for Hardcastle and then made himself comfortable again, this time cross-legged in front of the log, a little closer to the fire.

But Hardcastle seemed to have fallen deeper into thought—probably dwelling on his own 'what ifs'. This wasn't what Mark had intended at all, though the silence didn't last all that long before the older man said, "I'd be dead, probably."

"Huh?" Mark startled at the segue.

"Well, think about it. If I hadn't gotten you in my courtroom, and then strong-armed you a little into accepting my deal, I still would've retired that Friday, and I _still _would've started looking into cases."

Mark frowned but there wasn't much room for disagreement so far.

"I would've chased Peter Avery down to San Rio and got in his face, and ended up in that San Rio prison. How long you think I would've lasted down there?"

"Hmm," Mark gave that one some quick consideration. "Not ten years," he concluded. "But you would've had some other Tonto, right?"

"To bust me out with a helicopter," Hardcastle grinned guiltily and shook his head, "I don't think so."

"So you're saying I did the right thing back then?" Mark asked in surprise. "How 'bout Canary Creek?"

"How many times _did_ you break me out of jail?"

"Only twice," Mark shot back hastily. "The other time I just raised bail."

Hardcastle chuckled. "Okay, not always the best choice, maybe, but we'll file 'em all under flagrant necessity."

Mark sat back again, looking satisfied. The judge fell silent and his face slowly went more sober.

"That time in Washington, though . . ."

Mark frowned, waiting for him to finish. He thought he knew where the man was headed.

". . . I'm pretty sure it all would've ended there, if you hadn't shown up."

The recollection of the chase and rescue was clear, and with it a sort of shadow memory, like a dream, of the grim alternative—though Mark couldn't quite place where he'd previously encountered it.

"They would've killed you," he said flatly.

"Yeah," Hardcastle sighed. "I think so. Twenty years on the bench, four months of retirement, and _adios_."

No, this was definitely not where Mark had intended the conversation to go.

"It's not like that," he objected firmly. "Yeah, we all die eventually. Them's the rules. It's not even how _long _you live. It's how many other lives you touch while you're alive that matters."

"Maybe."

"Definitely. If you hadn't been there five years ago, Cody would've gotten away with murder and right now I'd be halfway through a ten-year sentence for being stupid. That's a dead certainty. But you _were_ there. So I'm here, on the shores of Lake Cachuma having a beer, and on Monday I'll be back in Hinklemann's class."

"So I'm to blame for that, huh? Sorry, kiddo, you're the one who decided on law school."

"Yeah." Mark looked out at the dark water, the slow-wheeling stars, and the ever-cycling moon. "_Yeah_," he repeated, more confident in what he intended to say. "I told you I thought I had something to contribute."

Hardcastle nodded. There was a hint of satisfaction in his expression.

"And I'm not holding you responsible for Hinklemann," Mark said assuringly, "but the rest of it, yeah, where the hell do you think I got the idea from—that anything good could come from the law? That was from watching you, hammering away at the rough spots all those years, trying to make it work."

Hardcastle raised one eyebrow. "Does that mean you think I did a pretty good job?"

"Yeah," Mark smiled, "mostly. With what you had to work with. Some things are easier to hammer out than others."

Hardcastle shook his head and muttered, "The damn gavel—try fixing a watch with it. You'll see."

Mark frowned, then decided to ignore the remark. He stretched and yawned, "Long day."

The judge nodded then finished off his beer. "Tomorrow comes early."

"Only if you want to have fish for lunch," Mark pointed out, considering the prospect of sleeping in.

"It's how many fish you catch while you're alive that matters," Hardcastle said solemnly.

"Hard to catch 'em once you're dead," Mark grinned.

00000

Saturday dawned clear and fair. They both had something to contribute to the cooler, it turned out, though for once Mark's contribution tended more toward gutting and layering with ice. 'Entry level fishing' was how he referred to it.

Sunday they rested on their piscine laurels, taking a break from the casting and gutting, and renting a small boat instead. The conversation stayed light, no more delving into the 'what ifs', only a running commentary from the judge on the flora, fauna, and history of the area. Mark leaned back, steered the rudder and enjoyed the scenery.

By late afternoon there were clouds gathering off to the west as they brought the boat in to the dock. They hustled back to clear their campsite and pack their gear. Mark, surveying the sky, unshipped a tarp to tie down over it all. They finished up and climbed in just as the first fat drops hit the windshield.

"In the nick of time, as always," he announced.

"_Almost _always," the judge corrected. "But it was a nice weekend—and we got some fish out of it. We can always broil 'em inside at home."

"Uh-uh," Mark put the key in the ignition and turned it, "not tonight." He glanced down at his watch then pulled out of the spot. "We're a little early, though."

"For what?" Hardcastle asked suspiciously.

"I've got us a reservation," Mark said smugly.

"Not 'Chez Maurice'; I'm not really in the mood for hot roast duck salad."

"Nope. Closer than that. And cheaper, too."

"You're paying, huh?"

"Yup, and I'm just a poor student—"

"With a free ride," the judge pointed out.

"Yeah, all future prospects, though, no current cash flow. But I found a spot—" He passed the first landmark on the twisting road, then saw the turnoff and took it. The side road was narrower and descended for a short way before ending at another.

Hardcastle had apparently gotten oriented, too. He said, "Hey—I know this place." He was smiling fondly at the collection of small buildings off to one side. "I used to come here with—" He hesitated and cleared his throat huskily, then asked, a little sharper, "How'd you know--?"

"Sources." Mark interrupted, tapping the side of his nose again. "Secret ones."

"Mattie," Hardcastle muttered in cheerful complaint. "She's the one who put me and Nancy onto it. You have to be a local to know about this."

"Is anybody in California a 'local'?" Mark asked doubtfully as he stepped out of the truck. The rain was petering out but the dusk was upon them. They scurried to the main entrance, the unprepossessing wooden door of a hewn-wood structure that dated from the last century. The yellow glow and cheerful noise of occupancy greeted them as they entered. Mark smiled at the hostess and announced them as 'McCormick, party of two'. She only glanced at her list and then ushered them in, seating them in at a corner table near the fieldstone fireplace, and presenting them with menus. The waitress appeared in her wake and took their order for beers.

The preliminaries efficiently dealt with, Hardcastle looked around with astonished satisfaction. "Been fifteen years." He swiped his nose and cleared his throat. "It hasn't changed a bit."

"Mattie said it's been here since the stage coaches used to come through this way."

The judge nodded. He seemed to be caught in memory. Then he shook his head suddenly and glanced down at the menu. "They've got a great slab of ribs here. Terrific steaks, too."

"Steak for me," Mark grinned. "It's gonna be a long week of trout."

"Didn't you say you were swearing off the complaining?"

"About mosquitoes and gutting fish," Mark corrected. "I reserve the right to gripe about the long-term fallout."

"Still carping, huh?"

"Ugh. I didn't hear that."

Their waitress returned, mugs in hand, and took their order—two sirloins, medium rare, with baked potatoes. She departed again, leaving the men to settle in.

Mark turned his chair a bit, surveying the Sunday night crowd starting to fill the place up. He cast a glance back at the judge, who still seemed a little pensive, though he didn't appear unhappy.

The older man finally noticed he was under observation and broke away from his reverie again.

"Thanks," he said.

"For what?" Mark asked.

"All of it," the judge nodded vaguely toward their surroundings. "The fishing, _this_. It was a good way to spend the weekend."

"I needed to unwind a little."

"Sure you did, kiddo," Hardcastle said knowingly. "Anyway, thanks. You took my mind off some things." He gave the former stagecoach stop a long, appreciative look. "Hey," he redirected his gaze sharply back to McCormick, "this wasn't supposed to be some kinda comment on how there's still a couple of things around that are older than I am, was it?"

Mark frowned and then said, "Not unless that's the sort of thing that would cheer you up."

"No." The judge looked indignant.

"Didn't think so." Mark scratched the side of his nose and then said, "I was just hoping we could get a couple of good steaks, that's all . . . but it is nice, huh? A hundred and somethin' years old and still going strong." He leaned back in his seat and took a draw from his mug.

Hardcastle cocked his head. "It does kinda put _five_ years in perspective, though."

"Uh-uh," Mark grinned, "nothing could put this past five years in perspective. It's been way too weird for that."

"'Weird', huh?" The judge looked a little disappointed at this assessment.

"A good kind of weird," Mark assured him hastily. "It's been fun . . . most of it, anyway."

Hardcastle opened his mouth but then paused. Perhaps it was at the recollection of a couple of the not-so-fun parts, but he plunged forward after only a moment's hesitation.

"We haven't talked about it much," the older man pointed out. "I've been wondering if you have plans."

Mark had been staring off at the fireplace, also caught in a moment of recollection—the worst moment of all, over three years back. Now his gaze came back to the judge with a questioning expression.

"You mean besides surviving Hincklemann and passing the bar—those kind of plans?"

"You're gonna survive, and you're _gonna _pass."

Mark smiled diffidently at his confidence and gave the assessment a hesitant, "I guess so . . . maybe." He took another swig from his mug.

Hardcastle sat back a little. "Only a couple more months and you'll be graduating—by this time next year the bar exam'll be just a distant memory." He was grinning but something seemed a little flat about it. "You could join some big firm," he kept his voice utterly nonjudgmental, "or hang up your own shingle—work for yourself."

It was supposed to be a pep talk, Mark supposed, and he also supposed he should be grateful for it. He tried a light smile and an appreciative nod but his disappointment must have undercut his sincerity.

"You oughta be giving it some thought." Hardcastle emphasized his conviction with a sharp nod.

"I do, sometimes," Mark said quietly. "I just thought . . ."

"What?" the judge asked, a second or two into the pause.

"I think I'd like to work for a small firm."

Hardcastle nodded again judiciously. "Easier to get a corner office."

Mark smiled. "Yeah, there's that. But I'd want to work for somebody who isn't just in it for a buck. Like I said, I think I have something to contribute."

The judge smiled slightly at that, "Yeah, I remember."

"Of course I intend to pay you back," Mark added.

Hardcastle started to object immediately but Mark waved him silent and went on.

"I figure I owed you—but not just for fronting me the tuition money and letting me crash in the gatehouse all this time."

He stopped there, realizing he was pushing his luck in the hearts and flowers department. Hardcastle wasn't a guy who was comfortable around the sappy stuff. As expected, the man looked unhappy about the turn the conversation had taken.

"It was a bet," he said stoutly. "You won fair and square: 20 to 18."

This was blatant misdirection but Mark smiled and let it go with a nod of agreement. The judge didn't look any more relaxed. It seemed as though he had something else he wanted to say. McCormick took another swig from his mug and decided to wait him out.

"A small firm," Hardcastle finally said. "How many partners were you thinking?"

"I dunno—I think one'd be enough if he was the right person."

Hardcastle frowned. "This isn't about owing me—"

Mark shook his head sternly. "Nope, never."

The judge's eyes narrowed slightly, as though he were weighing that in the balance. But the expression persisted for only a moment before he smiled and confessed.

"I'd been thinking . . . maybe a clinic—sliding scale fees--get some of my old retired buddies to donate some _pro bono_ hours. Golf's not all it's cracked up to be, ya know. I run into those guys, once in a while. They look a little lost sometimes."

"In need of direction?"

"Exactly. We could get 'em organized. Give them a little purpose in life."

"Herding retired judges?" Mark said dubiously. "I think you can be in charge of that." He sat back. "And me being able to join the firm—that's all still tentative."

"The graduating and the bar exam?"

Mark nodded grimly.

"Hah, just wait—a year from now." Hardcastle clapped his hands together once as though that were all that was needed to make it so.

"A year, huh?"

"A year." The judge nodded. "You'll see."

Mark smiled, and to his surprise there was nothing forced about it. It wasn't so much that he believed in himself, as the certain knowledge that Hardcastle did.

"Yeah," his smile broadened, "but we might still have a couple of trout left."

* * *

**Author's Postscript: **It's been five years, and 186 stories since I wrote my first H&McC piece. To those who've hung around, many thanks for the continued support.


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